Out from the white-grey February skies,
though only dribs of drab birds listless launch
venturings that tedium must advise -
cats raise one leg and twist the other haunch;
there's little play to make before the spring -
I call my muse to sing
not of leaves mulching-down with apple-rot,
nor snowdrops, yet in bulb-packs on the shelf,
but things within the mists that mind forgot
as missing sibilant of self to elf
that verse composed might marry fragments whole
that civil war in soul;
for though it's so I crawled like wasp in beer
my wings stuck thin, antenna draggled down,
my rough temper powerless as a frown,
yet raged my Woden-fireships from that mere
indemnity flew dragon-pyres here.
Redeem all rage for things political
work-out our motives fit for darker struggle.
And of that greater loss all come to bear
who last the decades, despite foolish greed,
iconic as a henge upon white air
her monument in mind is all I need
long times from her, yet she was still within -
heart rhythms in brain-stem.
Her soft voice gentles my perspectives clear,
conflict might dolly-zoom-dissolve in place:-
there is a world reflected in a tear;
there is a smile may crag upon a face.
And when my meditation there is done,
look for tomorrow's sun.
Sorrow may own a palace of the real,
Tolkien knew, that Compassion inhabits:
though you chase all the quantum white-rabbits
you won't find her in physics - that's the deal.
She fills your screens; starring in every reel.
Redeem compassion for atrocities.
Gaze be a searchlight that no tyrant work with ease.
.............................
These two stanzas are in the rhyme and meter of Spenser's Epithalamion, an ode written to his own bride Elizabeth Boyle upon the occasion of their marriage. These two (not 24) stanzas are about marrying together the disjoints of mind to fit it for these times.
I 'll give you the first stanza of Spenser's work here so you can see something of its structure:-
Ye learned sisters which have oftentimes
Beene to me ayding, others to adorne:
Whom ye thought worthy of your gracefull rymes,
That even the greatest did not greatly scorne
To heare theyr names sung in your simple layes,
But joyed in theyr prayse.
And when ye list your owne mishaps to mourne,
Which death, or love, or fortunes wreck did rayse,
Your string could soone to sadder tenor turne,
And teach the woods and waters to lament
Your dolefull dreriment.
Now lay those sorrowfull complaints aside,
And having all your heads with girland crownd,
Helpe me mine owne loves prayses to resound,
Ne let the same of any be envide:
So Orpheus did for his owne bride,
So I unto my selfe alone will sing,
The woods shall to me answer and my Eccho ring.
